


The Bandits in the Wood

by LadyRhiyana



Series: The tale of Squire!Brienne [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Battle Scenes, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Ethics, F/M, Fluff and angst and violence, Gen, Jaime Lannister's moral philosophy, Jaime is Brienne's mentor, Life lessons Lannister style, No longer crack, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 22:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16649485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: After her victory at Ashemark, Jaime and Brienne travel south to Crakehall to fight bandits. Brienne soon learns the difference between triumph at a tourney and respect won on a battlefield.





	1. Ashemark, the road to the Crag & on ship (Brienne)

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter picks up immediately after the end of "The Tourney at Ashemark".

Following her victory in the melee Ser Jaime and his cousins and a number of his old friends held an impromptu feast. The crimson Lannister tent was too small to hold them all and so they spilled out onto the green, seated on chairs or logs or even the grass around a central campfire. They ate roast suckling pig and fresh bread and cheese, ripe peaches and sweet cherries and bursting grapes, and they drank the best Arbor vintages Lannister money could buy. 

As the guest of honour, Brienne was seated at Ser Jaime’s right hand. She accepted their toasts and received their congratulations – sometimes a word, sometimes a hearty slap on the back – with what grace she could muster, even as the merriment attracted other knights and squires and lords, mostly men of the Westerlands, come to join the feast. With the men came whores and dancing girls and musicians seeking favour and coin: one daring, scantily clad girl boldly propositioned Brienne, much to her red-faced chagrin and Ser Jaime’s amusement. 

As the wine flowed and their faces grew flushed, the assembled guests treated her exactly as they would any other man – bawdy jests and boasting and the open camaraderie of friends and kinsmen. 

“A toast,” said big, bluff Daven Lannister. “To Brienne the Blue. One day, we’ll say that we saw her on the tourney field before she became a legend.” 

But the cousin who had bet against her – Tynan? Tybalt? Tyborn, she thought – was not pleased. “No, damn me, that’s going too far,” he protested. “I mean, just look at her! She may be a great beast pretending to be a man, but she’s still a woman.”

Flushed with wine and victory, Brienne shot back, “Better that than a boy constantly protesting that he’s a man.” 

As the others laughed at his discomfort, Tyborn turned to Ser Jaime. “Are you going to let her speak to me like that, cousin?”

“I don’t know,” Ser Jaime drawled, golden and lazy, his eyes gleaming with capricious humour. “Are you man enough, Brienne?” 

Tyborn’s hand flew to his sword hilt and Brienne started up, alarmed, but Ser Jaime only laughed, his amusement cutting. “Oh, put that thing away, cuz,” he said. “She’ll beat you into the ground. Come, sit down, both of you, and drink – let’s not quarrel tonight.” 

Flushed and chagrinned, Tyborn sat down and they drank. 

On her other side, Ser Addam Marbrand, one of the few non-Lannisters around the fire leaned in to speak to her. “Look at them all,” he said, nodding towards Jaime and his golden-haired cousins. “Rich and swaggering and quarrelsome, all competing for Jaime’s attention – Lannisters fight and claw amongst themselves but band together savagely against outsiders.”

Brienne frowned. “And I am an outsider?” she asked. 

Ser Addam laughed. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No. It’s the same with Tyrion: Jaime doesn’t care that he’s a dwarf, only that he’s his younger brother. Just like he doesn’t care that you’re a woman, or that you’re – if you’ll pardon me – ugly, or tall and strong as a man. You’re his squire. He’s taken you under his wing. And they’ll follow his lead because they love him.”

**

Long hours later, the roaring fire had died down and some of the revelers had begun to drift away to their bedrolls. Brienne was floating, her eyes fixed dreamily on the stars: they were very beautiful tonight, she thought. Bright pinpricks in the black velvet sky, the sparks from the fire flying upwards to join them – 

“Another toast!” a voice called out. “To the Maid of Tarth!” A ragged chorus of voices echoed the toast; someone filled Brienne’s goblet, but Ser Jaime pulled it gently out of her hand.

“I think she’s had enough for tonight, cuz,” he said. 

A deep, rumbling voice answered him; she couldn’t make out the words but the tone was affectionate and amused. 

“Come on then, let’s get you to your bed,” Ser Jaime said, lifting her arm around his shoulder and hauling her to her feet. She swayed alarmingly, leaning her full weight on him; he staggered and had to brace himself, but held her steady in the end. She dropped her head on his shoulder, humming a little in pleasant approval. 

The deep, rumbling voice made another comment as Ser Jaime guided her into the tent, and there was a general hum of laughter – but there was no cruelty in it, she thought, no mockery or contempt. 

** 

They were on their way as the sun rose above the hills, before she was even truly awake. Her head ached and her belly felt horribly queasy, but Ser Jaime only tossed her a chunk of hard bread and a skin of watered down wine. Wincing with every step her mount took, she slumped in her saddle and suffered, trusting that her horse would follow its companion’s lead.

It was a good hour before she felt well enough to ask where they were going and why they had left Ashemark in such a hurry. 

Ser Jaime turned in his saddle. “You’re awake,” he said, grinning. “I had begun to wonder.” 

She scowled half-heartedly. The early morning sun was warm on her back, and their road led through a river valley – the Tumblestone, Ser Jaime said, winding its way to the sea. 

“Are we going to the sea?” she asked. “Not to the Golden Tooth?” 

“Daven and his companions are heading that way after the tourney,” he replied. “There is to be a wedding at the Golden Tooth. A distant Lannister cousin – I forget which one – and a Lefford boy. Aunt Genna commanded their attendance.” 

Ser Jaime had told her of the formidable Lady Genna. Brienne had been half-relieved and half-disappointed that she had not been in residence at Casterly Rock. “But she didn’t command yours?” 

He shrugged. “Had she known I would be at the tourney, I’m sure she would have. As it is, Daven will have to make my excuses.”

Smiling, Brienne spurred her horse so that she rode beside him on the road. “Where are we going, then?” she asked, interested despite herself.

“There is an outlaw band entrenched in the forests south of Crakehall. Some of the knights last night said Ser Lyle is thinking of riding against them in force.” 

“You squired at Crakehall,” she recalled. 

“Yes,” he nodded. “Old Sumner Crakehall is dead, now, but his son and I were boys together, before –” he trailed off, shook his head. “It will be a chance for you to see some action. Tourneys are all well and good, but you must be blooded sooner or later. Better you do it here in the Westerlands, surrounded by men loyal to the Rock.”

Brienne had been born and bred in the Stormlands. Her father owed his allegiance to Storm’s End. 

She thought on loyalty, acceptance and the strangeness of fate as they rode, the only two travellers on the winding track, the rushing waters of the Tumblestone a muted accompaniment. “Thank you, Ser,” she finally said, her voice low and serious. 

He looked at her, his glance swift, one eyebrow tilted in question. 

“For the feast,” she said. “For the armour. For your advice and encouragement and – and your acceptance.”

He looked away. 

They rode in silence for a while longer. Finally, he said, “When we were very young, Cersei and I shared everything. We were two parts of a whole, and no one could tell us apart. And then our father began to treat us differently. I was taught to fight, but not Cersei. I was given a sword for a nameday gift, but Cersei was given jewels and a silken gown.”

Brienne thought on the proud, glorious queen, golden-haired and green-eyed, the mirror image of her twin – forever set apart by her sex. She wondered if the queen had envied Ser Jaime that nameday gift of a sword. 

“I know that’s simply the way the world works,” Ser Jaime said. “But I have never understood why.”

He coughed, suddenly, as if he had revealed too much. “It’ll take us four days of riding to reach the Crag,” he said in a very different tone. “We’ll take ship from there to Crakehall.” 

**

They were just under two weeks at sea. The weather was fair and the winds were steady, and the ship was fast and smooth-sailing; Brienne had spent much of her life on ships and boats of all kinds, and Jaime had often run wild on the streets and docks of Lannisport, home of the Lannister fleet. They knew the ocean in all its moods and whims; they spent much of their time on deck, barefoot like the rest of the sailors, the wind ruffling their hair and the fresh salt-laden breeze in their faces.

The days were warm, the skies and the ocean were blue, and the ship’s sails thrummed white above them. As the days stretched one into the other it seemed an interlude from reality, a time apart; he told her stories of Lannisport sailors and the Sunset Sea, of Ironborn raiders and the fighting in the Greyjoy rebellion, and she told him of Tarth and the Narrow Sea, of sleek Essosi pirate ships stalking wallowing merchant ships laden with silks and spices and gold. 

They ran into a sudden storm off the shore of Kayce, and when all hands were called to the ropes and sails they pitched in to haul and furl as needed, laughing in the face of the gale as the waves crashed over the deck and the ship heeled violently beneath them. By the time the black clouds had cleared and the winds had died down, they were drenched and bedraggled, their hands rope-burned, and the sailors were hailing them as shipmates and brothers in arms. 

As with the men at Ashemark, they slapped her on the back and seemed to forget that she was a woman. But none of the sailors – not even the captain – were brave enough to slap Ser Jaime on the back. He had the common touch; if he chose he could make men admire and follow and even love him, but he never quite let them forget that he was a Lannister. 

Finally they made landfall at Crakehall. Ser Jaime paid the captain handsomely, the flash and chink of gold dragons as they changed hands making the captain’s eyes gleam, and the crew called after them in farewell as they led their horses down the gangway and onto the crowded dock. 

They took a few moments to regain their land legs, the earth seeming to sway beneath their feet as they readjusted. And then they pushed their way through the swarming crowds of shouting dockworkers, sailors, merchants and hawkers towards the castle.


	2. Crakehall (Jaime)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne's first battle, and what she learns from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By its very nature, this chapter is darker and grittier than Chapter One. It contains a description of a battle and its aftermath, but the language and imagery is probably less violent than in canon.

“The bandits are entrenched in the woods,” Ser Lyle Crakehall said. He was a big, burly man widely known as the Strongboar, one of Jaime’s childhood companions. “They ride out to attack travellers on the Ocean Road. I’m sure some of the smallfolk are providing them with assistance.”

At Crakehall, the castellan had told Jaime and Brienne that Ser Lyle had already marched south with nearly three hundred knights and foot soldiers. They had ridden after the procession and had caught up with them two days later, the Strongboar welcoming him with open arms – and a bemused, if polite, nod for Brienne. 

“We should burn the villages and put the inhabitants to the question,” a thin, red-headed old knight said querulously. “That’ll teach them to shelter their lord’s enemies.”

The Strongboar scowled down at the parchment map showing the southern portion of his lands. “I’m not Gregor Clegane,” he said. “I’m going to put my own villages to the torch. Aside from the loss of their tithes and the ruined harvest, it will only lead to more resentment and play into the bandits’ hands.”

“We should burn the whole wood down around their ears,” said another man. “That’ll solve the problem.”

“I’m not going to burn the bloody wood either,” Ser Lyle growled. “Those trees are one of my prime sources of revenue.” 

“If they are entrenched in the wood,” Jaime interjected, “we’ll never be able to reach them unless we have the help of the smallfolk. For whatever reason, they’re supporting these bandits – if it’s out of fear, we can reassure them; if it’s because they think the outlaws heroes, perhaps we can address their concerns.”

“I know this story, Ser Jaime,” a third man said. “But it was Ser Arthur Dayne who led the expedition against the Kingswood brotherhood. You’ll forgive me if I say your own reputation is not –”

He trailed off, coughing, as Jaime stared levelly at him. “Go on,” Jaime said. “My own reputation?” 

“Please, sers and my lords, enough,” Ser Lyle said, breaking the tension. “It’s been a long day. Time enough for rest, and we can convene again on the morrow.”

*** 

Later, in the tent he shared with Brienne, Jaime scowled angrily as she unbuckled his armour and helped him to lift off the breastplate. “You heard what that cunt said earlier?” he asked her, pouring a glass of wine and tossing it back. 

Brienne nodded as she carefully placed the armour on a stand. She had been in the corner with the other squires, taking everything in with her usual wide-eyed interest – the good, and the bad.

“Well, it’s true enough, I suppose,” he drawled. “Ser Arthur managed to win the smallfolk over because his reputation was as snowy white as his cloak; my own cloak and reputation are forever soiled.” 

She stared at him with those wide, guileless, bright blue eyes. “Before we left King’s Landing,” she said, standing awkwardly before him, “Ser Barristan spoke to me.”

He put down his glass. “Oh?”

“He said that you were too good, too young,” she said, dropping her gaze and shifting on her feet. “He said that you made mistakes because of it.”

Jaime felt his blood boil, felt a number of vicious remarks rise to his tongue before forcibly stifling them. She was young, and naïve, and didn’t deserve his misplaced temper. 

He managed to restrain himself. “What else did the Lord Commander say?” 

She looked alarmed, her face flushed an ugly, splotchy red – but she held her ground. “He said that I should not follow you blindly, but should think carefully and make up my own mind about – about who you are, and what you’ve done.”

He stared at her for a long, long time, the silence between them stretching taut and excruciating. He felt the stranglehold of his past take hold of him again, the reputation he could never shed, the stares and the whispered comments that followed him wherever he went.

“And who am I, and what have I done?” he finally asked. “A man without honour or integrity. A kingslayer. An oathbreaker.”

She was very pale now, looking almost on the verge of flight. “Whatever else you’ve done,” she said slowly, “you have always treated me with honour.”

It was an evasion. He could push it, if he wished. He could push her. But if he did that, he might lose the fragile rapport between them – 

He got up and walked out. 

*** 

Long hours passed before his temper finally cooled. By the time he returned to the tent, she was fast asleep and he had regained his usual composure. 

***

The next day they captured a bandit scout and tortured him for the location of his encampment, and the question of how to win the smallfolk became moot. 

As the knights rode cautiously into the woods, following the foot soldiers and scouts who led the way deeper and deeper into the gloom, Jaime felt his instincts prickling. He signaled to Brienne and dismounted, seeing other knights around him follow suit; the way was growing tangled, the trees clustered so closely together that any advantages mounted knights might have were lost. Slowly, carefully, they crept forward on foot, Jaime motioning for them all to be wary of archers.

Whatever differences of opinion he might have with some of their leaders, Jaime felt the knights and foot soldiers behind him fall into position, felt their solid competence, courage and loyalty buoying him up. 

As they waited in position for the Strongboar’s signal to attack, Jaime pulled Brienne close to whisper in her ear. She was shivering, he realized; in nervousness or anticipation he could not tell. “Listen,” he said, “combat is not like dueling or the tourney field. Don’t worry about chivalry; just kill them before they kill you. If you lose your sword, use your dagger, or your fists, or even your teeth if you have to. Do you understand?” He shook her a little, saw her eyes focus on him. “And whatever else you do, don’t hesitate.” 

She nodded, her eyes intent, her hand clenching on her sword hilt as she braced herself. 

And then the horn sounded, high and clear, and his blood sang, his heart drumming as he charged into the outlaw camp. Arrows sang through the air with a deadly hiss, cutting down a few unlucky attackers; the bandits stood firm against them at first, putting on a brave show. He laughed as he parried a blow from a huge, axe-wielding brute and thrust under his guard, slicing open his belly; he smashed a green-clad archer in the face with his elbow and cut him down as he fell. The sound of men shouting and screaming and crying rose all around him, and he realized he was grinning fiercely. 

Dimly he was aware of Brienne beside him, of her height and brute strength and her solid bulk encased in steel as she hacked and slashed and punched at the bandits; he saw her go down, but just as he managed to fight his way through to her she was back on her feet, shaking her head, and looking for more foes to kill. 

It was a brutal, bloody fight, and it was over in minutes. Brienne looked white and shocked when she pulled off her helm and ran her hand through her sweat-soaked hair; her armour was dented and scratched and blood-spattered, and she was limping and holding herself stiffly, but she was alive and unharmed and had fought like a demon. 

He went over to her and clasped her shoulder, peering into her eyes, trying to judge how she had taken the blood-and-guts reality of combat. Some men could fight like gods in duels and tourneys, but hesitated on the battlefield; others could not bear to kill, or were crippled by the ghosts of their dead. Some men weren’t bothered by it at all, and some enjoyed it too much.

All around them, Strongboar’s men were mopping up the rest of the outlaws, securing the few survivors and dealing efficiently with the wounded. Their own wounded and dying were dragged into a clearing for the maesters and healers to tend to them, moaning and crying out piteously, and the smell of blood and shit was a brutal shock to the system. Brienne looked – dazed. Sickened. And then her eyes widened, and she staggered, bending at the waist and casting up everything she had eaten that day, retching and heaving miserably. 

Behind him, he heard the Strongboar’s low, gruff chuckle. “Aye, it takes some like that, their first time.” Ser Lyle pressed a thin wineskin into his hand. Jaime took a cautious mouthful, wincing at the burn of cheap, sour Dornish wine; still, he nudged Brienne’s shoulder and bade her drink. 

“She fought well,” the Strongboar said. “I wasn’t sure at first, but now I would gladly have her by my side in a fight.”

Jaime nodded, clasping hands with his old friend in thanks. It was a compliment of the highest order, but Brienne looked too haggard to appreciate it. She was swilling her mouth with the wine, spitting it out with a look of miserable disgust. 

“Come on,” he said, taking her by the arm. “Let’s go get drunk.”

As they passed, the knights and soldiers paused in their work to give Brienne a word of acknowledgment, praise or a simple respectful glance. 

** 

Unlike the tourney, this time there was no post-victory feast. Jaime found a skin of halfway decent wine and they sat huddled around a fire, just the two of them, trading the wine between them. Brienne still looked very white, and she was shivering under her heavy wool cloak; Jaime knew that it was not physical cold she felt. 

“Listen,” he said. “Knights are killers. We wear steel and carry swords and enforce the whims and decrees of our lords –” she tossed her head in denial, and he shook her, forcing her to focus. “But never forget that the sword is in _your_ hand. One day, perhaps, you’ll be called on to make a choice – to impose your own will on the world – and the choice and the responsibility will lie with you, and no other.”

Her eyes flew to his, flooding with questions. 

“One day,” he said, his voice low and gritty, “it will be you in the throne room, the only white cloak left with a mad king – the sword in your hand, and nothing and no one to tell you what choice to make.”

“And when that day comes make sure you choose well, for you’ll live with that decision the rest of your life.”


End file.
